


A Leek, Day by Day

by hamburger666



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 09:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15883140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamburger666/pseuds/hamburger666
Summary: It's that video game romance, babey~!





	A Leek, Day by Day

**Author's Note:**

> Don't you think it's weird that you can just give someone turnips until they love you? Video games are wild.
> 
> I didn't name the farmer cause it really jolts me out of stories.

**SPRING**

“It’s creepy, hun.” Elliott plops down on his hideous floral couch with a melodramatic sigh. Elliott’s a good friend, here for much the same reason as you, but sometimes he can be a little…blunt. 

“I know,” you say. You’re pacing. “I know. It’s weird, but…it’s kind of nice too, right?”

He looks pointedly at the thing in your arms and raises an eyebrow.

It’s a leek, a fresh one. The scuff of mud stuck to the side is still damp, actually. It’s really, really fresh.

“She’s just a little…overenthusiastic.” You don’t have to look at him to know his reaction to that. It isn’t even that you don’t like leeks, you love them, honestly. Just like you loved the daffodil yesterday, and the horseradish two days before that, and yeah, maybe the situation is a little out of hand. 

You roll your eyes at him and deflect with some random question about his book because you know Elliott is always happy to talk about himself.

Later that night, before you head out to the saloon and drink away your boredom, you wash the dirt off the leek and shove it in your produce drawer and think about how you’re definitely, 100%, for sure going to talk to that stupid farmer the next time she tries to give you some stupid vegetable with that stupid smile on her face.

Even if you like it.

**SUMMER**

It’s hot. The days get long and you spend them by yourself, mostly, sleeping and eating and walking when you want. That’s why it’s such a surprise when someone comes bursting into your cabin one day, someone that smells earthy and rich and tracks mud all over your floors long before you’ve had time to process anything.

“Oh,” you say, like a stupid idiot. Yup, that’s exactly the right way to respond to a home invasion. “Hello.” You notice you’ve dropped your chisel.

The farmer beams at you for half a second before she takes herself on a grand tour of your one room house, touching your art, pulling out your books, digging in your trash can for some godforsaken reason.

You wait, uncharacteristically patient, wondering if this is some kind of fever dream, and eventually the farmer stops moving, rounds on you with that disarming smile. 

You wait another beat, then two. You watch her eyes slide to the sculpture you’ve been working on.

“Oh, that’s…a work in progress. I’ve just been…” you falter, but she stands there patiently. She wants to listen, apparently. 

You could use someone to bounce things off of.

So you explain your art, explain what you’re doing in this tiny, quiet town, explain how much trouble you’re having making ends meet and the reason you walk in the forest every day. The farmer just regards you, serious and open, as if every word you say is more important than the last. She doesn’t talk much, you’ve noticed, but in the end she offers her suggestion. You nod, contemplative, and she shoves a huge strawberry in your arms and charges out the door as quickly as she came in. That’s that.

You slice up the strawberry the next day and put it on top of your salad. It’s the sweetest strawberry you’ve ever eaten.

**FALL**

It cools off. The days bleed together, but there’s definitely change in the air. You spend more time in town, sitting by the river or wandering around the general store, and the townspeople are finally starting to talk to you like you aren’t leaving the next day. You’ve never been a social person, but it helps, a little, to finally feel welcome in a place you’ve lived nearly a year. 

The other change is something you should have kept to yourself.

Stupid Elliott chokes on his beer and slams his hands on the corner table in the saloon, trying to contain himself. Your ears are red hot and you focus on wondering if Gus will let you add a shot or two to Elliott’s tab instead of your own.

“Are you serious?” Elliott’s voice is muffled behind a napkin. “You actually said that to her? ‘You’ll always catch me on the way down’? How long did it take you to think of that one?”

You shoot him a glare and try to hide behind your beer. “She’s nice, Elliott.”

“What, because she brings you vegetables? Honey, half the town is eating her produce right now.” You ignore his wink, shaking your head.

“It’s not only that. She listens to me, actually _listens_ , and she’s careful and thoughtful and kind. She comes to talk to me every day! Even if it’s raining. No one has ever made time for me like that before.”

“And I bet the fact that she always wears that sleeveless shirt and can apparently lift you clear over her head has nothing to do with this,” Elliott snorts, but there’s less energy behind it, now. His face changes suddenly. “Hey, has she come to talk to you yet today?” He’s looking behind you. 

“No, why?” You already feel the embarrassment and anticipation mixing in your stomach as you turn around. There’s a Tupperware in your face. It smells amazing.

“Vegetable medley!” The farmer smiles, and you feel absolutely disarmed.

“Thank you,” you mumble. Elliott’s eyes are laughing, locked on your face. “Do you have a kitchen? I didn’t…know you could cook.” You swallow audibly.

The farmer nods twice, smiles again, then jogs over to Pam and hands her a bottle of milk.

“See?” Elliott gestures to the farmer. “Half the town!”

You roll your eyes and down your beer.

**WINTER**

It’s cold, now. You throw yourself into your work, you stay in your cabin and wear two sweaters and three pairs of socks and try to forget the fact that you _on purpose_ moved up to the stupid, cold mountains. The quiet suits you, at least, so you get a lot of work done during the days. 

The days pass, they pass and pass, and one morning you wake up and realize it’s your birthday. 29, this year, and you cringe when you realize your mom is going to have something to say about _that_. So you get out of the house early, where you won’t have to hear the ringing of the phone, and you meander around the town center in the cold.

Elliott comes and finds you before long, smuggling his good whiskey under his coat. You sit together on a bench and listen to the ice cracking on the river, passing the bottle back and forth.

“I’m making something,” you start, hesitant. He’s noticed your mood today, so he sits patient and calm. You take a big swig and it burns. “It’s for her.”

He nods, thoughtfully. “You know it’s _your_ birthday, right?” Your bark of laughter is absent any humor.

“It’s not ready now,” you say. “I’m not sure if it ever will be, really.”

He looks serious, now. “Just do what feels right, Leah.”

//

Later, as you’re stumbling home from the bar, something stops you in your path. The farmer is there, of course she is, covered in coal dust and…slime? It’s gross. 

But her smile shines as she hands you an expensive-looking bottle of wine. “Happy Birthday!”

Your heart jumps in your chest as you take the bottle. You think about the piece you’ve been working on at home, and you think, _fuck it_.

You lean in and brush your lips against the corner of her mouth. The farmer doesn’t talk much, but she looks absolutely speechless now. 

“Thanks for remembering,” you smile, and the alcohol in you decides a saucy wink is appropriate here. You step around the farmer and into your cabin before you have the chance to make any other stupid decisions.

You work on your art all night long.

**SPRING, AGAIN**

It warms up, finally, and you feel anticipation deep in your bones. The snow melts, the ground is wet, and you _plan_. Usually, you feel like an observer, someone who watches from far off and doesn’t take direct action unless absolutely necessary, but you’re tired of waiting. You spend a week collecting ingredients, practicing your recipes until you’ve got something that feels _signature_ , and then you set up your ambush.

You know where she goes. After all, she’s following you. It doesn’t take long at all, she stumbles out of the trees with a turnip in her arms and looks at you surprised, like she thought she was the only person in the world.

It feels a bit dirty, stealing her tricks from her, but the surprise on her face turns into something you can’t put words to, so you do the only thing you can.

You step close and wrap your fingers in the hem of her tank top and pull. She responds, embracing you.

 _This must be the warmest spring in years_ , you think, absently, wrapped in the arms of your farmer. 

You kiss her.


End file.
